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Shout for joy to the LORD, all the earth. 

 Worship the LORD with gladness; 

   come before him with joyful songs. 

 Enter his gates with thanksgiving 

   and his courts with praise; 

   give thanks to him and praise his name. 

For the LORD is good and his love endures forever; 

   his faithfulness continues through all generations. --Psalm 100

(This is not just another Thanksgiving blog. Don't worry.)

I belong to a faith community where this mantra is preached: "Don't thank me; thank God!" When I first became a part of this group, this was a BIG problem.

See, I have this reputation to uphold. I am known to some as "the incredible thanking woman." Show me a kindness, I will say thank you. It's that simple. Credit where credit is due.

But no. I would thank someone for a word of wisdom or kindness and the hand would shoot up for me to talk to. "Don't thank me; thank God!"

A mam holds the door open-- thank you. "Don't thank me; thank God!"

I sneeze; "Gesundheit!" Thank you. "Don't thank me; thank God!"

Seriously?!?

It's almost comical, this near-Pavlovian response to those two little words. 

Don't get me wrong. I love these people, and this group changed my life. For that-- and them-- I do thank God. Regularly and vocally, to any who will listen.

But I think this is unnecessary, and deprives us of the chance to step smack into the middle of a mess with a fellow pilgrim and grow-- together. Here's what I believe:

I thank God that I am a healthy woman, that I can still get out and walk every day. And I thank the people whose hands have made the shoes I take for granted, the warm coat with the furry collar that keeps me comfortable.

I thank God that I can wander the aisles of the local grocery store, overwhelmed by the choices I have. And I thank the farmers who have toiled where I choose not to, the laborers who harvest and process and deliver the food almost to my front door.

And I thank the woman who asks me, "Paper or plastic?" Because without these willing hands, where would we be?

I thank God that I have a roof over my head, that I have a space to come home to every night. And I thank my children when they come over to help me maintain the yard or get the Christmas stuff down out of the loft in the garage.

I thank God that I live in a country that is safe from the ravages of war. And I thank the soldiers who have fought to keep it that way.

I thank God for bringing people into my life who have opened my eyes to how good I have it. And I thank those whose lives might be filled with challenges, for allowing me to walk alongside them in their grief and pain.

Oh, sure, I know. If we look, we see that all thanks point to God. Every thing points to the Creator. I know this. You know I know this.

But as Ron Hutchrcaft put it this morning, why wait to give a bouquet until the one receiving it can no longer smell its sweetness?

You never know.

You never know when that one word, that smile or looking someone in the eye and sharing a brief moment may be a complete game-changer. Responding in grace and patience instead of anger, offering a compliment or yes-- a word of thanks just might be the moment when a world-weary traveller first glimpses Jesus. 

I thank God for the gift of words. And I thank God for this medium to share the words he gives me. And I thank you for reading them. I pray they serve to brighten your day, even just for a few moments.

And I thank you for being Jesus to another. 

To my American friends: Happy Thanksgiving. May your table be filled with joy and laughter, with the very love of Christ himself. And may you walk away from that table filled to overflowing with the grace of the Lord, whose love endures forever and ever.

And to the rest of my friends, wherever you are-- I thank God for you. And I thank you for being Jesus in my life. 

Dry, dry bones

 God said to me, "Son of man, can these bones live?"

    I said, "Master God, only you know that."

 He said to me, "Prophesy over these bones: 'Dry bones, listen to the Message of God!' I'll breathe my life into you and you'll live. Then I'll lead you straight back to your land and you'll realize that I am God. I've said it and I'll do it." -- Ezekiel 37, The Message

What is it about this time of year? Everything points toward death. 

The skies lose their summer brightness and dim towards grey. 

The trees drop their leaves, like so many dirty socks strewn across Mother Nature's carpet. 

Shuffling through them calls up Peterson's image of the dry bones, how they rustled as the Lord brought them together and attached them with sinew, covered them with skin and breathed life into them once again.

Isn't that the whole point?

Each year we watch this happen. The leaves change, the winds turn chill. The colors of fall give way to November drear, and then the snows begin. The cold blankets of winter, lovely to look at from inside our warm, cozy houses-- but if you venture out, be prepared.

But before we know it, the snows melt, creating rivulets of life. The first signs of life appear, green tips of crocus peeking up through the snow. Birds return from their winter exodus. Squirrels get all squirrelly as they chase each other round and round the oak behind my neighbor's house.

Life goes on. 

So why do we, as Christians, fail so often to look beyond our circumstance and remind ourselves that life goes on? 

A friend's diagnosis is terminal. Despair sets in. Eternal focus is lost. Why is that?

Don't get me wrong. I am not here to get all happy dappy and remind you that it's all right-- Jesus is waiting to welcome you home! (That's true, and that's important-- but sometimes, that promise is unhelpful. Ask the poor woman I unleashed on two days after Rich died and she "comforted" me by reminding me he was with Jesus now.)

But here, this place! God has placed us in such a wonder-filled creation, surrounded us with so many amazing fellow travellers-- how can we not miss it-- miss them-- as our days draw to a close? Our family, our dear friends, all those who shaped us into who we have become (in a good way), all integral parts of our journey through this space and time.

And when the diagnosis is our own, then what?

I met a wonderful person who has stared death in the face for over 40 years and asks these same questions. How do we live here, now, fully engaged, when Death is rapping its gnarled knuckles on our doorpost?

Look around you.

Behold, our God is making all things new again. 

So it will be with each of us.

Our bodies, worn out in this life, made new, resurrected and restored.

Just as each spring, fresh life is breathed into Creation.

And the funny thing is, if we look, we can see it happening all the time. As our days grow shorter and the snow flies, halfway around the world Down Under, it is coming on summer. 

How about that. 

“Where, O death, is your victory? 
   Where, O death, is your sting?”

--1 Corinthians 15:55

Make mine a double. . . .

"Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, 

   for his compassions never fail. 

They are new every morning; 

   great is your faithfulness." --Lamentations 3:22-23 

Tuesday morning, I experienced a double sunrise. I remember experiencing this once, maybe twice when I was growing up, but had forgotten how much fun it is.

I left my home-away-from-home quite early, around 6:45, headed towards Sugarcreek and a retreat for pastors. (I thought I had ‘em fooled, that I am not really one—but God clued somebody in. I am so grateful. This day, this place has been nothing short of amazing. But I digress.)

I headed out across the open Amish countryside, a little nervous but mostly just looking forward. Sherwood (my car) and I wandered up hills and down, watched patches of fog settle, then lift over open fields. Cattle quietly ruminating, an occasional horse waking early, frisking a bit to shake off the chill of the early morning. Beautiful stuff.

As I turned off Route 89 onto US 30, there it was: the sun, rising lazily out of its sleep, shaking off the cloak of darkness-- a vivid orange ball of fire against the grey sky where dawn meets the night before. It seemed to quiver in anticipation of the day ahead, filled with potential. Truly, for me, a God-moment of splendor and glory.

And at the same time, off to the south was a perfect cross, where contrails from two jet planes intersected. I have always had a keen eye to spot these signs of God’s presence, but it had been a long time since I had noticed one. This one was—special. It stood, unmoving and unmoved, not breaking apart as contrails are wont to do, but remaining neatly cruciform against the morning sky. It followed me (or I followed it) for a good half hour before it finally dissolved into the day.

But while I followed the cross, something unusual happened. The sun apparently got tired and went back to bed, because there it was again, rising lazily out of its sleep, shaking off slumber like a wet dog shakes after a bath. This time it seemed determined. No more hitting snooze. It was time to rise and shine.

Have you figured it out, how I got this double sunrise? I did not realize, I guess, that there are hills around Wooster. After one leaves the flat pastureland along 89, there are hills.

So after I watched the sun climb once, over the flatlands, I watched it do a double-take and rise a second time, sneaking out from behind the hills.

Amazing.

Scripture tells us the Son will rise again. Sure enough. This morning I was witness to God’s testimony of life. 

Leave me alone with my leaves. . . .

 “No eye has seen, 

   no ear has heard, 

no mind has conceived 

   what God has prepared for those who love him”

1 Corinthians 2:9

I took my Fall Walk this afternoon. 

You might know the one: The one when you forget, for a time, that you are a grownup and you are supposed to behave like one.  

The one where the neighbors, if they see you, wonder what you are up to and whether or not you are going to mess up their carefully-raked piles of leaves on the tree lawn.

I absolutely love shuffling through the fallen leaves. I have a friend who, when we eat salad with croutons, his eyes twinkle and he giggles as those croutons crunch so loudly neither one of us can hear anything outside our own heads. It's the same with a good Fall Walk.

Have you noticed? Leaves are not just leaves. They aren't just different colors; they have different levels of crunch.

Sycamores are the best. There is a huge sycamore up the street. Those giant, rusty-brown leaves, big as my hand, by their very size seem to pack extra shuffle value. They crackle and crunch as I make my way through them, dragging my feet without lifting them off the sidewalk. (It's the same walk Peter uses to make tracks in A Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats.) 

Love those sycamore leaves. Especially in someone else's yard.

And then there are the oak leaves, a composter's nightmare. I do believe, if you put a pile of oak leaves in the compost bin, when you come back in two months you will still have-- a pile of oak leaves. They simply do not decompose.

But they crunch! The corn flakes of autumn, they also get soggy fast when it rains. G-r-r-r-eat.

Maples, lindens, ash-- these leaves seem to stay soft. They're gorgeous, bringing their yellow and red to the sidewalk art show. But their shuffle power is-- limited. 

Different leaves, different gifts. Just like people.

Today was a beautiful day for a Fall Walk. 

Even in this season when Creation seems to be dying back, when the chill winds of winter lurk just around the corner and the promise of snow hangs in the air, still God brings us so many ways to celebrate him. 

Color and crunch. Whispers and watercolors. Absolute perfection.

Feast for eye and ear. 

(Go on. You know you want to. I won't tell anyone. And if you want to mess up my leaf piles-- wait for me!)

Beacon in the City

“You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven." --Matthew 5:14, 16

There it stands. God's Holy Oil Can. Right there on University Circle. It used to be Epworth-Euclid, now it's University Circle United Methodist Church. And its copper-green spire stands atop the church for all to see as they find their way through the hustle and bustle of city life. 

Church historians and lovers of architecture will immediately see its resemblance to Mont Saint-Michel, a beautiful cathedral built atop-- or into-- an island. Its spire cannot be hidden; it rises high above its surroundings. So, too, does University Circle UMC's green oil can.

It's a landmark. Coming across the city, everyone recognizes it, tells their friends to watch for the oilcan church and you're almost there.

The Cleveland Clinic grows up around it, and still the spire rises like a beacon above the landscape.

Pretty amazing, actually.

But what is more amazing is the light shining inside this place. 

There are plenty of churches in Cleveland. 

Some would even say there are too many churches. 

Some would say that if a church's membership is declining, if it can't pay its bills-- well, then maybe it's time to close the doors.

But some people maybe should check with God first.

Aging, shrinking congregations. Beautiful-- yet needy-- buildings. Urban flight. 

Sounds like a recipe for disaster, if you're a church. 

But our God, who brings life to spots where we might least expect to find life, has a better idea.

And in this church that has served as a beacon offering hope and light to the city for many, many years, is born a new mission, a fresh dream.

People who love God and love each other have come together to shine God's light in the dark. They come bearing life and love, smiles and sharing, reaching out to a diverse community in desperate need of a promise.

Really, they are just doing what a church is supposed to do. Love God, love each other. Affirm one another as children of the Almighty.

Look around you. How is your church doing? For that matter, how are you doing? Is your light shining? Are you offering the love of Christ to the world?

Or are you just hoping maybe someone else will "take care of them" for you?

Let your light shine. It might be as simple as offering a smile, or holding a door open for someone with their hands full. 

Life is short. What are you waiting for???

If not you, who?

If not now-- when?